


never been a gambling man

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Original Character Death(s), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:51:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Sam go on a road trip and no one really talks about their feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never been a gambling man

"He's on the run," Romanov says over the speakerphone. Won't say how she got the intel, won't say on the run from whom exactly. Hail HYDRA and all that - they won't die so easy, even if they're running scared. 

Sam's seen the file: he can't figure out what a man like that would do - to have everything taken from you like that, including yourself. And now he has no-one to give him orders, even. "He's dangerous, you know. There might be nothing left." 

"He could have killed me, but he didn't," Steve says. "That's the Bucky I know. He's the best man I ever knew."

\-----

It's Romanov that gives Steve the heads up about the first body. She emails them the police report, just some suit who works for the energy department. Bureaucrat, family man, HYDRA agent. 

"Jesus," Sam says, when he first sees the pictures. He squeezes his eyes shut, staggers away. Rogers' hand is on his elbow, warm and offering some kind of comfort. 

"She says it's him," Rogers says, and he sounds faintly disbelieving. "Says it's his signature. The Winter Soldier."

"Ah," Sam says, and watches as Roger's face turns carefully blank.

\-----

It's always the Winter Soldier killing, not Bucky. The Winter Soldier slicing through those people like sushi. The Winter Soldier carving into their skin, leaving them to die in excruciating pain. 

Always the Winter Soldier, not Bucky.

Sam doesn't say a thing, just follows the bodies where they go. Romanov buries the news, or maybe Fury does if he's back from Europe; whoever it is knows what they're doing. The papers he scours through online only say, "died in an unfortunate accident," or they say nothing at all, save for an obit. Mother, sister, son. Loved by all. They will be missed. 

Sam wonders if the families are aware, if they're a part of it. But then they're still alive, so maybe not.

\-----

"You were probably on their list," Steve says.

"Should I be proud?"

"Maybe."

\-----

Sam makes a playlist for the road. Marvin Gaye, Luther Vandross. Some Stevie for the long, quiet nights. 

"So this is part of my education?" Steve asks, his fingers tapping a drumbeat against the steering wheel. Sam lets him drive, mostly. Doesn't even feel bad about it. 

"Yeah, next time I put some white dudes on. Promise."

There's something about the way Steve laughs, and after a moment Sam realizes it's because he hears it so rarely. But it's easy, like this: across bumpy roads with people you trust with your life. But this car seat is way more comfortable than a Humvee, that's for sure. 

"You ever think," Sam asks, "maybe he's running so hard because he doesn't want to be found."

"Then he can tell me that to my face."

"And if he decides to kick the shit out of you again? Or maybe finish the job?" 

Steve says, "So what's punk again?" 

Sam shakes his head, lets the matter drop. "Punk's dead, that's what it is."

\-----

They're in an abandoned HYDRA base, staring at what looks like a torture device. "Wipes his memories, keeps him compliant," Steve says, and his jaw is so tight Sam figures he might just shatter if he touched him right now. There's a smattering of what looks like dried blood on the chair, and he doesn't wanna know how it got there. 

Not that he gets a choice: there's video, documents in a file cabinet. A clinical breakdown of what exactly was done to Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. It's not pretty, but Rogers insists on watching everything. His best friend, screaming over and over on an old-fashioned monitor on VHS, for forty years, give or take. Sam leans over after the third tape, switches it off. "Enough, come on. We got work to do." 

"I'm not done yet." 

"Survivor's guilt," Sam says. "I've been there. You can't keep living that moment over and over. It won't help." 

Rogers wipes at his face with his hands. "I can't," he says. "I let him down." 

Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, knows better than to speak.

\-----

He doesn't have nightmares. No cold sweats, no night terrors, no waking up in the middle of the night screaming. He wants to say he doesn't dream at all, but that's not right, so maybe he just can't remember them. It's maybe a good thing that he doesn't. 

"You know, I actually did want to be a pilot," he tells Rogers on one of their endless drives, chasing after a shadow. Chasing after a trail of bodies, and maybe after this he'll start having nightmares after all. He's seen worse, but not by much, and always surrounded by sand and heat and sweat so he could compartmentalize it, be grateful he's not _there_ , he's here. But now everywhere is there, just blood and pain and bodies torn apart. 

"Hm?" Rogers says, distracted. 

"They pulled me out, offered me this instead. How could I say no?" 

"Yeah, they always make it so you don't want to decline, don't they. It's the fine print they leave out." 

"You have regrets?" The words come out sharper than intended. But Rogers is already shaking his head. 

"No, but I do wonder sometimes what's the point." 

Sam turns his head, puts his arm out the open window. "There is no point. You just keep doing what you do because it's the right thing, that's all."

\-----

"The first time we met - some kid was beating me up on the playground. Bucky just walked right up to him and elbowed him in the nose. Everyone's parents were called. Bucky just said, I don't like bullies, over and over again, and refused to say he was sorry." 

They're in a motel room off the I-95, three miles from the last victim. "I know, I kinda went to your museum exhibit once or twice." 

But Rogers needs to talk, so Sam lets him. His voice is distant, thick with nostalgia. "I always asked him, why would he even want to be my friend. And he always smiled and said that he was lucky to be mine, not the other way round." 

Something clicks, in Sam's head, and he speaks before he can stop himself. "Sounds like you were in love with him or something." 

The surprise that crosses his face, followed by the ruefulness, answers the question, more or less. "They were different times, though. And he was - I was. It would never have happened."

The first boy Sam ever kissed, they were thirteen and he lived across the hall, had a mom who used to give Sam a slice of her homemade pumpkin pie whenever she had any extra. He tasted like cinnamon and spice that boy, as they made out under the stairs for what seemed like hours. Kept doing it, too, until his mom remarried and they moved to Arizona. 

Sam still thinks of him sometimes. He had a way about him. Sweet and shy and unfailingly polite. Sam could never decide if he was always chasing after how he felt in those moments or if he just had a type, even back then. 

"Listen -" he begins.

"Yeah?" 

"Nothing. We'll find him, I promise." 

"Before or after he kills every remaining HYDRA agent out there." 

"Before," Sam says, decisively. Too late, and there might be nothing left of Barnes to save.

\-----

The news is always the same: Romanov, Pierce, Captain America, Stark mouthing off, footage of the helicarriers going down, himself once in a while: a bird in the distance. New York, always New York. London. The aliens, S.H.I.E.L.D. A reporter asks, face a mask of concern: "Who's going to protect us now?" 

"You think we did a bad thing, exposing S.H.I.E.L.D?" 

"Well, at least no one's asked yet, what's a few million dead in exchange for world peace." 

Rogers doesn't sleep much, maybe an hour or two every couple of days. Sam only figures it out when he wakes up one night and Rogers is sitting by the window, face bright under the glow of his laptop. "What are you doing? It's three am." 

"Did you know that the Walkman and the compact disc were invented and patented by Sony?" 

"Yeah?"

"Evolving technology - see I just like collecting knowledge." 

Sam turns over in the bed, says, "No one buys CDs anymore," before he falls back asleep.

\-----

Rogers is looking for Barnes' list. Romanov, with all of her intel, doesn't know how he's finding them. She shows up one evening, black leather and hair tied in a low ponytail, shares a bottle of whiskey with them. 

"We're rooting them out as fast as we can - HYDRA has agents just about everywhere you can think of. What I can't figure out is how he knows. I don't think they would have given him that kind of information." 

"Maybe they did," Sam says. 

Romanov shakes her head. "You don't know them, they don't - they take you apart and put you back together again, but they never let you forget you're just a weapon to them. Something to use. You don't get that kind of access." 

Sam reaches out, pours another two fingers into her half empty glass. She clutches it like she's grateful, and all he can do is nod.

"We're just friends you know," Steve says, once Romanov is gone, faded away like she was never even there. He's standing at the bathroom door, t-shirt clutched in his hands. Sam glances at him, glances away towards the window. It's starting to rain, a drumbeat against the glass. 

"Yeah, I figured."

\-----

"I'm not sure what I did," Steve says. 

There's a woman moaning on the screen. Sam leans over, closes the window. "You want some anti-malware, maybe a pop-up blocker."

"Stark keeps sending me emails about my internet footprint and security. But he also sends me videos of small animals doing things. I prefer the kittens, personally. This laptop is a loaner though."

"You guys close? I saw you, on TV. New York and all that. But he's kind of -"

"Yeah," Steve says. "He is." There's a smile on his face though, quietly fond. "I'll introduce you someday, when the world tries to end again."

"This didn't count?" The existence of aliens, and mostly hostile ones at that, kind of changes one's perspectives of things. But the ground's already shifted under Sam's feet more than once, so he's learned to roll with it. He can deal with the aliens. He can even deal with the gods. It's his own, the ones that quietly decide who gets to live and who dies, who go about their days like they're normal folk, like they're no different from everyone else - those are the ones he has a problem with. 

"He was probably busy."

Sam drops himself in the chair next to Steve, leans back. "You remind me of someone." He had a couple of beers over dinner, and now he's faintly buzzed, relaxed. 

"Yeah?"

"He was sweet, like you. But sweet."

"It's been a while since anyone's called me sweet. There was a girl - woman actually." The smile on his face fades away. "But that was a long time ago."

"Bet it feels like yesterday to you."

"It was yesterday to me." His gaze flickers downwards, then back up again to meet Sam's eyes. "I'm trying not to live in the past. It's hard, sometimes."

Sam leans forward, puts his hand on Steve's arm, says, "Yeah, I've been there. But we're here tonight, we're alive, it's all good, right?"

"Right," Steve replies, and leans forward to kiss him.

\-----

Sam falls asleep to Judy Garland singing somewhere over the rainbow, wakes up when they pull up to the diner. But Steve's just sitting there, not moving. "I watched him die," he says. "This is a second chance - isn't it?" 

The last one was bad, a young woman barely in her twenties. Romanov said she was ops, arranged for others to be terminated. It didn't make her any less flesh and blood. "Sure it is. I really want some pie - do you think they have pie?" 

"Apple, right?" 

"Captain America and apple pie - this is my life's dream, right here." 

A little girl recognizes Steve as Sam is digging into his pie - it's not as good as he wants it to be, but it's good enough. She stares, wide-eyed from her booth, and Steve smiles at her, shakes his head quietly. She keeps staring, but she doesn't open her mouth as far as Sam can tell, and after a while he looks away, goes back to his pie. 

"You should have it with ice cream," Steve says. 

"Not how I like my pie." He pushes the plate forward, says, "Try it." 

"It's going to be disappointing, inevitably. It always is." 

"They don't make 'em like they used to, huh? Must be hard, being so old." 

"You forget crotchety. No one appreciates the finer things in life anymore." He takes a bite, puts the fork down. "See now you've made it impossible for me to comment on this without sounding overly judgmental." 

Sam starts to chuckle, drags the plate back. "It's not that good," he says. "It's just pie." 

Steve laughs, shakes his head.

\-----

They get close in Georgia. Grits and sweltering humidity, and a metal fist in Sam's face as he ducks, arches up into the air and kicks the bastard in the face. Not the enemy, he reminds himself as Steve starts to run towards them, yells, "Bucky, stop. Stop." 

Bucky stops. He pulls off his mask, tells Sam, "I don't want to hurt either one of you. But I will. Stay away from me." 

"He doesn't blame you, he just wants you back," Sam says, quick before he bolts. 

Barnes just shakes his head. "He doesn't know what I've done. There is no going back." And then he disappears, and Steve is pleading into thin air, grasping for someone that's already gone.

"Well get him next time," Sam says. 

Steve returns his shield to his back, says, "We need a better plan." His gaze sharpens, fingers flickering over Sam's cheek. "And you probably need some ice on that." 

"I've been punched worse." He has, and the only explanation is that Barnes held back. "Another day, then." 

Steve nods.

\-----

Sam puts together another playlist, of classic swing and jazz, plays it low in the motel room as Steve showers.

When Steve comes out he says, "They're not the same as records." 

"Imperfection does have its appeal. Not that you'd know anything about that." 

Steve sits on the bed, leans in close to Sam. "Trust me when I say that is something I'm intimately familiar with." He closes his eyes, inhales. "This is music you slow dance to." 

"We can dance if you want, Rogers. But let's be clear, I'll lead." 

"Well, seeing as how I've never actually danced, that might be wise."

They dance, but only for a while. Steve can't stop laughing, and he also has two left feet. 

"I told you," he says. 

"Practice," Sam says, sliding his arm around Steve's waist. 

They stumble to the bed, and this becomes easier as time passes: hands and skin and Steve, sighing against him as Sinatra sings about home, as the night slips slowly away.

\-----

Sam was six when he first heard of Captain Steve Rogers. He got an action figure, played superhero with it and imagined himself punching bad dudes in the face, saving the world. Seventy years under the ice, cold and alone. Waking up to find everyone you ever loved and knew gone. Except for the one. 

"I'll never give up on him," Steve says. 

"I know." 

You should have fought back, fought harder, he almost says, but doesn't. 

\-----

Flying feels like dying, feels like being reborn. Climbing up instead of going down. He thinks of a god sometimes, red cape billowing behind him as he calls down the forces of nature, of a man in an iron suit punching his way through alien flesh. It's different, somehow. He's just a soldier. But they're at war now, and it goes on. 

The news broadcast on the radio talks about governments falling after the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D, of suspected HYDRA agents being dragged into the streets and publically executed.

"Long night," Sam says. 

Steve reaches out, switches off the radio. Puts on some blues instead. "I've had longer. Company's good." 

"That it is," Sam replies, and leans back in his seat.


End file.
